Till the End of this Age
by Zeusicus
Summary: Moody always warned him to keep every situation in mind. Eliminate all possible outcome, no matter how ridiculous. So when Harry Potter finds himself flung a few decades back and tricked into taking the DADA position, he's ready. Or is he? Rated T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

**Year 2004, with Harry**

Harry Potter had accomplished many things in his twenty-four years. He survived the killing curse, defeated Voldemort, reformed magical creature policies, became a top Auror, and weeded out several dozen corrupt Ministry officials. He had done a lot for the Wizarding World. So much, in fact, that wizards and witches began to depend on him. Every problem they encountered, they would call for him. Every. Single. One.

Wannabe dark lord? Ring up Harry Potter. Rebel forces attacking? Hey, Harry's on speed dial; he'll help! Cat stuck in a tree? Harry-bloody-Potter at your service. It was filling up his entire timetable. His schedule currently looked something like this: Wake up. Get called down to the Ministry. Eat breakfast. Receive SOS call from Aurors. Head over to Hermione and Ron's place (he sincerely wished that they would get a fireplace soon). Run from mob of fans, or journalists asking for interiews. Get called down to the ministry. And so on. It was getting so very annoying. He even had a small department at the ministry so people could contact him easily. And speak of the devil, a silver frog patronus glided to him and opened it's mouth.

"Mr. Harry Potter sir, there seems to be some possibly dangerous material in the Department of Mysteries left over from the battle during your 5th year. We need your delicate handling and expertise to remove it, so please proceed there as quickly as possible

He briefly wondered why the Ministry would not have cleaned up all of the debris from a battle that had occured, what, nine years ago, and reminded himself that to do otherwise would require actual work.

"Oh, alright," Harry said crossly as the patronus faded away. Swearing, he dressed himself magically.

Farrell Dunn was a very nervous wizard, Harry soon discovered. He had a habit of mumbling to his shoes and fidgeting with his robes, and also stuttered so much that his words were practically indecipherable. Luckily, Harry was adept at speaking with these kinds of people. Even after all those years, the Boy-Who-Lived propaganda never really wore off. He repeated in monotone again, "You called me up at six in the morning to clean up sand. Without using magic."

Farrell flushed beet-red and started twitching visibly, "Y-yes. Sand from T-time Turners is highly h-hazardous. Magic of any k-kind can set it off."

Harry acquiesced reluctantly and conjured a mop. He mopped furiously, his knuckles white on the handle. All the while, he muttered blasphemous comments under his breath such as, "I knew the Ministry needed me to clean up their messes, but this is ridiculous!" He was surrounded by powdery sand that stretched as far as he could see. Yellow tapes cheerfully declared "Caution. Clean-up in Process." Farrell wisely stayed well behind them.

There went his plans to meet with Ron and Hermione. Third time this month he had to blow them off, nothing new. He paused in his mopping for a breather, and thought about getting the ministry to hire a janitor. Not all messes could be cleared up magically, such as this he felt it. A tickle in his nose. Oh no. Harry tried desperately to suppress it. Not now, not here! But there was no use denying it.

Crap.

"Aaaaachoo!"

Harry sneezed, the sound echoing in the large room. There was a pregnant pause, like the calm before the storm. The moment broke, and all the sand swirled into a huge cloud - with him in the center. It coalesced into a vortex and sucked him in with a small "pop." Before the darkness took him, Harry briefly thought nostalgically of Voldemort. Maniac was probably laughing his arse off from hell. "Pathetic, Harry Potter, chosen one" he imagined him saying in that high, cold voice. "I died in a super-cool, ultra-dramatic battle to the death. You *snicker* died from cleaning."

Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, Savior of the Wizarding World. Done in by cleaning (which he shouldn't have even been doing). Daily Prophet was going to have a field day with this.

 **1 day after travelling back to 1942...**

Harry awoke to a pounding headache and the feeling that he had done something very stupid and that he couldn't take it back. His mouth tasted like cotton sock, and somehow, an angry goblin with a sledgehammer had made himself welcome in his head.

He blinked blearily and sat up. Everything was blurry without his glasses, but he squinted and managed to make out, a curtain? Weird. He turned around and began groping for his glasses on the bedside table. It wasn't here, it wasn't there, and Harry could feel the threads of panic starting to wrap around his tight throat. What happened last night? he asked himself miserably. Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Harry whipped around, hand reaching for a wand that wasn't there.

"Looking for these?" the person asked, with his glasses in hand.

That voice sounded awfully familiar. Low, pleasant, and patient. Harry shakily slipped his glasses on and blinked at what he saw. Albus Dumbledore, younger than Harry had ever seen him, smiling serenely. Albus Dumbledore, who had died eight years ago, standing here alive and well.

Harry's eyes rolled back in his head, and he returned to the blissful black.

Albus stared at the boy who had suddenly fainted and frowned. Was he really that frightening? Perhaps Albus looked intimidating. He would go change into the purple, polka-dotted robe that he had received as a joke present instead. No one could be scared of a man wearing purple polka-dots.

Harry awoke for the second time that day. He blinked again. Albus was still standing there. He was wearing a familiar polka-dotted robe, but yes, he was still there. Not a dream then. Maybe a hallucination? Harry poked Albus cautiously. Solid. Warm.

"I'm real," he said to Harry's unvoiced concern.

"Oh," said Harry, "I fainted then?"

"Yes," replied Albus sympathetically. "You won't do that again, will you?"

Harry blushed, "No! I'm sorry. I haven't fainted for years, since I was thirteen even."

He didn't count the time last year Hermione was giving birth, and Ron and he had unwisely decided to stay and support Hermione during the painful process. Ron had fainted as soon as the baby's head became visible. Harry soon followed him on the floor. But if you asked either of them, the whole incident had never occurred. Anyone who said otherwise was just begging to be Lockhart-ed.

"May I ask," Albus said delicately, "what happened last night?"

Harry furrowed his brows. Yesterday. What had...oh.

He remembered.

 **The day he landed in 1942, with Harry:**

Harry had landed with a thump on his backside. He stared upwards at the pinkish swirling vortex that had just deposited him rather ungracefully. Harry noticed with a vague sense of interest (shock was a wonderful buffer; it made everything seem so distant and unimportant and not now so don't worry, Harry) that the vortex was gradually shrinking. With a small pop!, it vanished. He looked around. It was still the ministry, but everything was different. All the crystal balls were intact, and there seemed to be fewer even before he, Ron and Hermione

"Oh," said Harry, finally snapping out of it, "bugger."

20 minutes and a daring escape from the Ministry (involving several panicked apparitions to escape from the suspicious ministry officials) later found Harry on a bench with his head between his knees. He'd be fine. In a minute or so. Right. First step, when in doubt, assess the situation, like Moody taught him.

He was stranded in the past with no visible way of getting home, nothing but his wand and the clothes on his back, and had no idea what to do.

He checked his pocket and smiled wanly. Alright, fine, and a small.. no large sack of a thousand galleons, supposed to be for emergencies. Well, this qualified all right.

He was currently located outside... He looked around, recognizing the place, before spotting the familiar Three Broomsticks inn sign behind him. He was lucky, he felt, to get to Hogsmeade, which he knew well.

Harry Potter walked into the Three Broomsticks, noting the many ways, subtle or not, that Hogsmeade had changed.

The decor of the Broomsticks had changed somewhat to Harry. It seemed quaint and old-fashioned. Harry figured that he would get used to the changes in due time. He approached the bar where an ancient wizard was staring gloomily at his sole customer- a suspicious looking humongous witch (that could have reached Hagrid's nose) that seemed unusually green in color, and practically screamed in fear when Harry had walked in her general direction, running comically out of the bar and leaving behind her plate.

It was not that _he_ was the ugly one here.

The reaction of the barkeep was totally different. He happily served Harry a his light lunch, and happily gave Harry a copy of the Daily Prophet when he inquired for it, inviting Harry to sit by the bar as his lunch was prepared.

Harry sat down, opening the paper. Almost immediately, he was happy that he had did so when he saw the date. June 16, 1942. This was complicated. He had expected to be back thirty, forty years at the most, but sixty-two years!

So his location was in the Three Broomsticks Inn. In 1942. His emotional state was...

He stared blankly at the paper for a good five minutes, until his lunch was finished and a few other customers had walked into the park, before giving up.

Goddamnit. They sure as HELL did not have situations like this in the manual.

Harry slapped himself and took a deep yoga breath. Okay, calm down, Potter. You can do this. He just needed...a plan! Harry glanced toward the pub, practically empty because of the current war-time situation. He glanced back at a puddle at his feet that reflected a haggard and panicked face. His haggard and panicked face. Harry stood up. The plan would wait. He was way too sober to be dealing with this right now. Some beer would help, yes, it would help.

 **1 day after travelling back to 1942...**

"I remember getting drunk. Like really drunk. Like Ogden's Old Firewhiskey, maybe this fourth glass is a bad idea, drunk," answered Harry. "And...nothing else. I was hoping maybe you could tell me what happened?"

Albus stroked his beard (shorter than Harry remembered and with streaks of auburn, this was so weird). "Well..." he said.

 **The day Harry landed in the year 1942, with Albus:**

Albus was on his nightly patrol when he heard shouting. He immediately followed the sound, his heart beating faster. Was it another one of Gellert's supporters? Albus rounded the corner only to encounter a curious sight. A black-haired wizard facing two other violent-looking men. By the way the boy was swaying and the slurred speech, Albus guessed he was more than a little tipsy. One of the attackers snarled at the boy's comment and raised his arm to cast a spell. Albus opened his mouth the warn the green-eyed boy.

There was no need. Before his attacker could even get out the first syllable of his spell, the boy had cast a linked spell. Judging by the almost rope like, helical twist and reddish color of the spells, he had used Expelliarmus, Stupefy, and Incarcerous. Albus was more than impressed. In fact, he felt his eyes take on a speculative gleam.

With another hiccup, the young wizard incapacitated the other man. Suddenly, his head whipped around and his eyes found Albus'. Albus tensed.

 **1 day after travelling back to 1942...**

"And then?" Harry asked, almost dreading the answer. Please let his chronic idiocy to have been on break last night, please.

Albus blinked. "I'm...not quite certain myself."

And Harry promptly threw up.

Looking at the pathetic man, Albus decided to reconsider his plans. This Harry, though capable indeed, did not seem to have the self-control and abstinence needed for the tutoring of a few hundred students. No, not indeed.

"Come on, young man, let me bring you back to the Three Broomsticks." Albus twisted his lips, into a very false smile.

 **A/N: Decided to put this up; it was sitting in Document Manager for too long. Reviews make the world go round. And writers writing faster. Even a smiley face, or a "This is terrible" would help!**

 **Grammar mistakes, problems?**


	2. Chapter 2

" _Doubt thou the stars are fire_ ,

 _Doubt that the sun doth move_ ,

 _Doubt truth to be a liar_ ,

 _But never doubt I love_ you."

 **-Shakespeare**

* * *

Albus had dropped him off back at the three broomsticks and his room. He clearly remembered that.

So it was such that when he was jolted (or rather kicked) awake, he was shocked to see the shockingly familiar woman looking down at him, haughty and arrogant. Black hair, black eyes, heavy-lidded, but not wearing death eater robes. With a small gasp, he sprung up, feeling for his wand (which was enchanted to go back to his left pocket after some time), but found the woman twirling it in her right hand. In the darkness of early morning, the sight was rather eerie.

"Give me that." he said, or rather spluttered. But now that he had a better look, he found that the woman had kinder eyes and a rounder face then the woman that killed his godfather, and upon reflection he realized that Bellatrix could not have been born-yet.

"Why are you on my doorstep, filth?"she demanded, voice high and cold.

Black eyes met his green ones, and pierced him with a familiar stare that would have made in scream and go for the kill in his younger years. Being older, and realizing that Bellatrix Black was not even born yet, he calmly stared at the woman. Probably her mother, or at the very least an aunt.

"I said, _why_ are you on my doorstep," she repeated slowly, voice full of menace.

Unfortunately for Harry, his mind had gone blank. He uttered an expletive, and that seemed to be the last straw.

" _Flipendo!"_

Groggy and only half-awake, Harry did not manage to dodge the hex in time, as he was pushed backwards by it, falling hard on the ground. Part of his mind noted hat he was farther away from the... he abruptly realized that he was not outside grimmauld place. He had not much time to dwell on the thought as a hex missed his ear by inches.

"Wait, " he began, only to have his left shoulder set on fire. Luckily, rolling around solved the problem, but the burn still ached.

As if on cue, he felt a by-then familiar weight in his left pocket. The look of shock on the woman's face was not even needed to tell himself what he had just obtained.

Springing up, he whipped out his wand. " _Expelliarmus!Impedimenta_!"

The two spells hit her faster than she could react-more proof that she was not Bellatrix, for the latter would have surely thrown up a shield. The disarming hex threw her backwards towards the wall, even as her wand clattered on the street, where Harry accioed it into his hand. The slowing hex prevented her fall, and he immobilized her arms so she couldn't do anything.

"Now,"he said, "Could we be more civil this time round?" He was tired, he was burnt, he was wondering why he had ended up in this situation, and he did not want to deal with this particularly troublesome woman.

"Do not talk to me in that insolent way, filth." the woman said defiantly.

 _That sounds like Bellatrix, all right,_ Harry thought in resignation. Attacking an innocent man found at your doorstep also stank of Bellatrix-ness, he reflected, but there was the mystery of him even being here in the first place. He decided to take a different approach. To fight fire with fire. If she was so aggressive, maybe she would respond to the threat of force. Years of being an auror had made him used to this by then, though it always left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"I'm holding a wand, you are not, and I am perfectly able of casting unforgivable curses," he snarled, leaning forward in (what he hoped was) a threatening way, prodding her neck with his wand. "I am not exactly in the best of moods, so you should tell me why I was rudely awoken by your kicking."

Her expression was nearly unreadable, he realised. In a perfectly neutral voice, she said "I found you at my front gate."

"So?"

"How were you even able to get that far?" the woman replied arrogantly, but with a tint of frustration and (could-it-be?) wonder on her proud, yet attractive features. "How were you able to breach the wards of the Noble house of Rosier?"

 _Rosier?_ He thought for a moment that this woman may actually not be related to Bellatrix, before he realized that he had seen the name on the Black family tree somewhere.

"I'm asking the questions here." he said, pretending to be annoyed.

"Fine, I found you outside my house, and having breached five layers of wards that my family set-up. I was wondering how you did it, and I was a little rude, OK?"

Harry narrowed his eyes, trying to discern whether the woman was lying. Satisfied that she seemed to not be doing so, he tried to piece through everything from what he had learned. True, he was a powerful wizard, but not powerful enough to break through 5 layers of wards without even knowing so, especially when he was probably drunk. It didn't take a long time for him to figure out what had caused that to happen. _His wards._ He had wards set on his clothes by the most gifted arors in his department-Hermione, Depre, even some by Kingsley, and of course-himself. They were supposed to prevent any harm from coming to him, and had disabled many a trap (even muggle ones) while he was on some particularly dangerous missions. Apparently, they worked against the Rosier wards.

He sighed, knowing that he would probably not see his friends again, before a loud cough bought him back to the real world.

"Can you set me free now? It's only me in the house, if not I would have awakened my parents and my brother already."

Thinking about the Hogwarts he knew from the future-he snapped back his head, and for the second time in the wee hours of morning, green eyes met black. Immediately, he felt a sharp pain in his head, and tried to throw up his shields (which he had never been able to do well). However, it was too late. Either his shields were too weak or he had failed to react in time.

The women let out a gasp, her eyes as wide as saucers. "Holy shit," she whispered, "you are a madman."

He stared at her with a deadpan expression. He really needed to improve his occlumency skills, he reflected.

"You're not mad," she breathed.

"No," Harry shook his head. He eyed her briefly, seeing that she seemed too awestruck to attempt to hurt him.

" _Finite"_ he whispered, threw her wand at the ground, and turned away.

She followed him. "Wait, wait," she shouted, as she caught up, wand in hand. "you're from sixty-four years in the future."

"Yes," he growled.

"I didn't manage to find out how you got here. Is it planned?"

He shook his head, struggling to maintain his neutral expression now.

"How? Where's your time-turner? Is it through the Ranel charm? I always thought that that was just hypothetical..." She continued, face flushed with excitement. She even seemed in awe of him.

Somehow, that expression reminded him of Colin Creevey, dead and gone.

He snapped.

He whipped around and pointed his wand at her again. "Look here, you already know so much about me, so can I know what is your name at least."

The woman spluttered for a moment before she amazingly recovered her composure, walked over, and took his hand. "Druella Rosier."

They shook hands hesitantly. "Well... I'm..." he suddenly realized that if he gave her his real name, he would damage the entire timeline, possibly irrevocably. He had already violated the first rule of time travel by going back more than fifty years, to hell with the time-turner dust. Then he cursed himself for telling Dumbledore his real name. The manipulative old coot always made you feel at ease around him. Since Dumbledore already knew that he was a "Harry", surely there would be no harm in telling Druella. "I'm...I'm Harry er... Alberts." he randomly invented.

She nodded, sceptical. Once again, he felt a sharp pain in his mind, but was prepared this time. ALBERTS ALBERTS ALBERTS ALBERTS ALBERTS, he thought with all his strength.

Druella nodded, seemingly satisfied, even as he pretended that he was in pain. The sadistic smirk did not escape his eyes, however. Like mother, like daughter indeed.

"Alberts...hmmm...there's only a small colony of Alberts in Holland." Druella thought out loud as Harry felt himself slip into his neutral expression again. Indeed, Ron, Hermione, Ginny and even Mrs Weasley had remarked that when he slipped into that expression, he was trying to hide something.

Seeming to abandon her thought, Druella stared at him quizzically. "If you've traveled sixty-four years into the past, your parents may not even have been born yet. But what about your grandparents? What will happen if you meet them." Her gaze made him feel as if he was a slab of pork waiting to be chopped with a knife.

He shrugged, but also realized that if Fleamont Potter looked similar to him, questions would be raised, that he would rather not answer.

"Well, come on then, Alberts."

Harry blinked in surprise at her sudden request. It seemed totally random.

"What? In your house?" he asked, suddenly noticing his own sloppy, stinky robes. On a whim, he magically checked them with his wand, and found that his wards were gone, with the exception of a minor shield charm. Yes, his clothes could use a change.

"No, of course not. We go... to shop. You, Alberts, look like a slob."

Totally disregarding the fact that it was extremely early in the morning, Druella set off at a brisk pace, as Harry followed behind. He thought about how he ended up in front of the Rosier house in the first place. He could remember drinking a glass or two of vodka (then receiving weird glances as he asked for a malts whisky), and had some butterbeer.

Dang, he really had to stop drinking.

The silence didn't last, however.

"Did Grindelwald win?" Druella asked, not even looking in his general direction.

And that was just the beginning.

A much, much younger tom the barkeep (the lad couldn't have been more than 15) and his father Tom Senior were able to provide him a room to wash up. For some reason, Druella did not want to go to the three broomsticks inn, and muttered a fair bit about the womanizing innkeeper. Harry had to hide a chuckle, as he thought about Rosmerta and _her_ three broomsticks inn.

Aside from asking many questions about the future, Druella was also an impatient woman. Thrice she had shouted for him to hurry up and she even stuck her head in to see why he was taking so long to shower (to which he had been annoyed, and mortified). There really was no point in hurrying up, for when Harry had dressed fuly, the sun was just poking it's head out of the horizon.

He enjoyed the sunrise before another "Hurry up now!" from the bloody woman he had locked out of his room made him unlock the door.

He had then been dragged to Twilfitt and Tattings (Madam Malkin's did not exist) and had to endure another intense round of questioning, to which he mostly ignored, aside from a few "Yes"s, "No"s and the occasional "Ministry's still the ministry."

After that, she insisted that he buy a bunch of totally useless trinkets that "a pureblood would surely need", before asking him "You _are_ a pureblood, right?" He had nodded then, but had regretted after he saw the items she stuffed in his robe. What was the point of a quill with the Hogwart's quest, or a fake wand that looked like a simple piece of wood.

At least she paid with _her_ money.

Eventually, they stopped by the owl-post, where Druella had grabbed an owl-order form, and Harry had bought a Snowy-white owl that reminded him sorely of Hedwig. He had bought that with his own money, as Druella did not approve of owls.

Finally, they walked back towards Leaky Cauldron, Harry's trunk miniaturized and safely in his pocket. Surprisingly, Druella had stayed silent throughout the whole trup, and it was only as they were about to reach the inn that she popped a question.

"What was your previous job again?"

"Along the line of Auror work." he had responded, by now feeling grateful to her for getting him all his belongings.

Unexpectedly, she sighed and shook her head. Responding to Harry's questioning glance, she explained that he would have much trouble finding a job, as he needed identity papers, and she was no about to use her money on him (the only reason she had been doing so was because of the knowledge she deemed crucial), if that was so, he felt that he might have sorely disappointed her, for what he had told her would not have given anyone even the briefest idea about the future, much less use it to her advantage.

It was as they were reaching the inn when she let out a loud groan, motioning at the twenty or so young wizards in front of them, and the rest of the people giving them a wide berth.

Troublemakers.

* * *

 **A/N : Hey, it came out quicker and longer than last time. Regarding the "bashing" question, Albus will probably get bashed-a bit. Just a bit. A LIIIIItle bit. ;)**

 **Apologies for the accidentally uploaded previous chapter, which was the incomplete version of chapter 3, actually. The interview comes up next, don't worry fam. Please read and review, follows help too.**

 **Oh, and did anyone catch that Percy Jackson reference?**


End file.
